


(When I Got You) All Upon Me

by scrybles



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: F/M, M/M, Prompt Fill, pretend!boyfriends
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-25
Updated: 2013-06-25
Packaged: 2017-12-16 03:34:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/857299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrybles/pseuds/scrybles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not until they're all squeezed onto a garish red couch, Liam pressed snug between Harry and <i>Sir Ian bloody McKellen</i>, with Graham Norton's eyes lighting up in a way that means he's about to say something excessively funny and equally as sarcastic, that Liam finally takes a moment to think, <i>Oh shit. This is really happening.</i> Because Graham Norton may not be Reuters, or AP, or even the godawful pink eyesore that is Perez Hilton's website, but he knows that the minute this airs, the minute someone rips it from iplayer, it will be uploaded onto Youtube, and there will be pictures all over tumblr, and everyone will share it on Facebook, and it'll be available for torrent and Liam really tries not to regret his life decisions. And he really <i>really</i> tries not to to hate Harry (the cheeky grinning fucker) with every fibre of his being. </p><p>He wonders how many hits you'd get if you type 'one direction' and 'gay' into Google. </p><p>Blind Gossip is probably going into convulsions right about now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(When I Got You) All Upon Me

**Author's Note:**

> For this lovely prompt over at [THE GREAT LIRRY FIC-A-THON](%E2%80%9D%E2%80%9D), the file of which is sitting in my WiP folder, aptly titled 'fake!boyfriends will be the death of me', because I literally do not know how I'm getting through this entire thing (I cry a lot now, I'll not go into it). I have to apologise however, as the story ran away from me somewhat, and I ended up writing something more along the lines of Pretend!Dating Without Actually Realising We Already Were than what was originally prompted. So. *throws confetti???* 
> 
> Thank you to the many people I pester about this story.  
> Danielle? Danielle who? This is basically 20-minutes-into-the-future!fic.  
> Lies, Fairytales, and Fallacies
> 
> Title from Matt Caplan's "Sully My Days".

It's all Harry's fault.

Well that's not completely true. It's maybe a tiny bit Liam's fault as well. A minuscule bit. The smallest .000000001 percent his fault. But with all the details and colours bleeding into one another, forming the vast clusterfuck of a bigger, slightly farcical picture, it is definitely _mostly_ Harry's fault. 

And it's not until they're all squeezed onto a garish red couch, Liam pressed snug between Harry and _Sir Ian bloody McKellen_ , with Graham Norton's eyes lighting up in a way that means he's about to say something excessively funny and equally as sarcastic, that Liam finally takes a moment to think, _Oh shit. This is really happening._ Because Graham Norton may not be Reuters, or AP, or even the godawful pink eyesore that is Perez Hilton's website, but he knows that the minute this airs, the minute someone rips it from iplayer, it will be uploaded onto Youtube, and there will be pictures all over tumblr, and everyone will share it on Facebook, and it'll be available for torrent and Liam really tries not to regret his life decisions. And he really _really_ tries not to to hate Harry (the cheeky grinning fucker) with every fibre of his being. 

He wonders how many hits you'd get if you type 'one direction' and 'gay' into Google. 

Blind Gossip is probably going into convulsions right about now.

\- - - - -

Liam is _polite_ , alright? He holds doors open for people, and says his pleases and thank yous, never puts his elbows on the table, and always goes out of his way to help someone when they need it. His parents raised him right. Taught him that hard work, a positive attitude, and good impressions reap many a reward. _Manners matter_ and _people like people who are thoughtful and gracious_. And somehow this all translates into Liam's nonexistent ability to say 'No', even when it's completely justified and necessary, because for some strange reason he's equated 'No' to the crippling humiliations of his awkward youth. It is being harped on and knocked around so frequently he had to take up boxing to get people to stop. It is being laughed out of the school dining hall for daring to ask the prettiest girl in his year to May Ball. It's almost being sent home with his tail between his legs before the bright, shining glory that is Nicole Scherzinger, and eventually Simon Cowell.

And okay, so maybe those things didn't turn out so bad. Maybe they were good for him in the end. But he can't imagine being that person, or doing that to someone else. He doesn't want to be anyone's bad memory. He doesn't want to be anyone's trial. 

Girls are not elusive to him, and he completely understands that they're not sopping wet emotional rags and are perfectly capable of handling rejection, his sisters spent enough time beating that into him growing up. But thanks to Louis and Niall's new absurd obsession with flaming shots, Liam is a little too drunk for any of the words that come out his mouth to be anything less than offensive, and there is a really clear, drawn out line between rejection and outright rudeness. So he just ends up nodding and smiling, laughing in the right places, hmm-ing in the others, sipping his drink and apologising to his liver and one good kidney and trying his best to be really attentive. After all, if you've nothing nice to say. 

She's pretty, the girl he's talking to. Or rather, the girl who is spouting off her entire life story while Liam's fingers clench around his pint, tucking her long wavy hair behind her ear and leaning into him every so often, with this look like she wants to swallow Liam whole. And he's definitely not afraid. Not at all. But he hasn't seen any of the lads for awhile now, and he's spent the last hour shuffling from one side of the club to the other trying to shake off this gorgeous blonde totty that he just has no interest in and who keeps pushing her breasts against his arm. They're nice breasts, they really are. But in the nicest way possible, he wants nothing to do with them. He's just out for a laugh with his mates, no matter how much his mates officially _suck_ , and kind of hates himself for not manning up and telling this girl to just _go away_. 

She's got him leaning against the bar, when her friends swoop in. They've surrounded him, trapping him amidst a throng of shrill affectation-laced introductions and apprising looks, and the girl's fingers are clasped around his bicep, digging into his skin as if to keep him from running. Liam can't possibly imagine why she'd think he'd do that _now_ considering he hasn't gathered up the bollocks to do it _as of yet_. But she holds him there, with her hand or her circle of equally attractive friends or her sharp stare, he doesn't know. All Liam knows is that he cannot move, and okay, maybe he is just slightly terrified. 

He jolts when a chilly hand slides across the back of his neck and down his chest, arm hooking over his shoulders as Harry suddenly appears next to him, cold as fuck, but with a disarming smile spread across his face all the same. He looks like he just came from outside, coat still on and smelling of smoke and cheeks a bit ruddy, making Liam shiver as the heat slowly seeps away from him and into Harry's lean body. He was probably chatting rubbish with Zayn, who'll endure almost anything until he's satisfied the gnawing need in his chest to chain through a pack of cigarettes and disassemble every word Satre ever put to paper. 

“Hey Li,” Harry murmurs against his ear, lips icy but breath hot, rubbing his cheek against Liam's as if to expel all the cold in that single spot. Harry pulls him in, back to chest and arms circling his waist, pressing tightly against Liam like he's trying to squeeze them together, to make them one person. For a moment, it's silent, or as silent is it can get in the din of a packed club thumping with bass, and Liam doesn't know what mortifies him more. That people are staring, or that people are staring at Harry rubbing sort of obscenely against him and, what the hell? Purring? 

“Haz,” Liam tries for reproachful but ends up sounding a little breathless. 

And the girl, she let's go of Liam like she's been burned, shocked into some sort of outraged bemusement as Harry breathes deep into his neck. “Thanks for watching him,” Harry says to her, voice dropping low, lower than Liam thought possible, eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly, challenging. “But I think I'd like to have him back now.” Something rolls in Liam's gut, and he reminds himself that this is not unusual. This is Harry, and he clings to all of them with a fierceness akin to flame on wood. Normally it's not so abrasive. Normally Liam doesn't feel like he's being claimed. 

Before he knows it, Harry is tugging him away, dragging him through the crowded dancefloor and putting space between them and the group of now slack-jawed sloanies, staring after them as if something's been stolen. Snatched from right under their noses. It's not until he's been sat down in a crowded little booth overlooking the main floor, Harry perching himself in the bend of Liam's lap after first shedding his coat, that Liam's words finally seem to uncatch from his throat. “Hazza, what the hell?”

Harry only glances down at him, wide-eyed and innocent, and green green _green_. “What? I'm not allowed to sit on one of my very best friends? All the things we've been through you can't even give me that?”

“ _No_. Of course. I mean, what the hell are you _doing_ ” He feels a little offended when Harry just rolls his eyes, resting his arm around Liam's shoulders again. It's a perfectly valid question! 

“Saving you, you tosser,” Harry bends to whisper it between them, like a secret, like the fear wasn't written all over Liam's face just as Harry swept back inside, like it wasn't easy for him to read. “Shut up. Just go with it.” He wriggles in Liam's lap and gets more comfortable than he has any right to, looking pointedly down between them, cheeks dimpling as he smirks wide. “Anyway, you like what I'm doing.”

“That is definitely my mobile,” Liam responds a just a tad hysterical. 

Harry doesn't leave his side for the rest of the night. Not even when Zayn passes by to bid them farewell, batting not one eye at the sprawl of Harry's legs over Liam's own. Or when they find Louis and Niall on the edge of the dancefloor, giggling and holding each other up, pinching at each other until someone gives in. Especially not when Harry's eyebrows knit together, and he glares over Liam's shoulder at the still staring girl and her posse. No. He doesn't leave. He just drags Liam to dance, and presses their bodies flush against each other, and does everything short of sticking his tongue out and screaming 'nanananabooboo' across the wet heat of the room. 

He's aware that people are looking, and that maybe there's a flash or two out of the corner of his eye, and that out of all of Harry's really-stupidly-bad-ideas, that this one probably ranks in the Top Ten. Right up there with dick jokes during interviews and thinking he could break up with Taylor Swift and get away unscathed. It's monumentally bad. But Liam can't really bring himself to care, because Harry just keeps grinning at him under the strobing lights and bumping their sweaty foreheads together, and hanging off of him like Liam's the only thing keeping him standing. And when he thinks he can get away with it, he'll smack his lips against Liam's cheek in a sloppy kiss, throwing his head back and laughing when Liam growls, “Hazza,” and rubs at his skin, unimpressed. Harry'll just buy him another drink for his trouble, purposely passing by the girl from earlier on their way to the bar, sneering and winking at her while he slips his hand into Liam's back pocket. 

By the end of the night, they're pretty much gone, holding each other up exactly like Louis and Niall before them, stumbling out into the frigid nighttime air and pushing through the sea of flashes and too personal questions that follow them around like an irritating, badly composed soundtrack. Harry threads his fingers through Liam's, gripping his hand tightly as they trudge out the club entrance and climb into a waiting taxi, falling back against the seats with great sighs and breathless chuckles. Harry is still grinning at him, has probably never stopped the entire night, and Liam wonders vaguely if that doesn't make his face hurt, how his cheeks aren't splitting apart. Maybe Liam doesn't approve of Harry's slightly anonalous, and honestly, somewhat grandiose methods. Maybe Harry's a ridiculous human being who does ridiculous things because he kind of likes the attention, and Liam is ridiculous by association because he let's Harry _get away with it_. It doesn't make him any less grateful that they're friends. Because Harry was there all night, pretending to be Liam's _something_ just so he didn't have to bloody say 'no'. 

London at night passes by them in a blur, and Harry doesn't let go of his hand the entire way home.

\- - - - -

Liam is definitely not weeping into his breakfast. He's not. _Really_. 

Or at least, he's trying not to. He's still got a headache the size of China and Niall is not exactly making his morning any easier. Liam's had to sit there for the last hour listening to Niall recount the entire evening, in great detail and with uproarious commentary-cum-laughter, up to and including Harry dirty dancing up against Liam at every available opportunity against every available surface. How _presh_ they looked holding hands and getting a cab home together.

“So which of you thought up that brilliant idea,” he asks, obnoxiously loud and abhorrently unaffected by hangover, the vile, odious, unsuffering bastard. He'll say it's 'cause he's perfect, and Irish, and haven't the Irish suffered enough already,' but it's a stinking, stinking _lie_. Everyone knows it's because he never mixes drinks and he probably downs his weight in water before he drunkenly throws himself into bed. It's definitely not because he's Irish. It's because somewhere under all that bleach blond, horribly, smugly cheerful humanbeing _person_ is someone almost offensively smart and self-reliant. It's insufferable, really, how Niall can pretty much get on without the rest of them if need be. He doesn't need anyone to hold his hair while he's being sick and stuff paracetamol down his throat. 

Liam doesn't drink often. It makes him a little unforgiving. And really stupid, obviously.

“Harry,” Liam says lamely and tries really hard to hide in his plate without getting egg all over his face. “He sort of swept in and I went along with it.”

“Shocking.”

“What's that supposed to mean,” he asks, indignation crawling up his spine and making him sit up straight. 

“Just that you _always_ go along with it,” Niall says simply. And adds as an afterthought, “Louis too. But at least Louis can look pretty boys straight in the face and say 'no'.”

Liam feels his face screw up like he's just bit into something unpleasant. “It _seemed_ a good idea. At the time,” he says, as if that explains any and all of the foolishness that he and Harry get up to. 

Niall's expression goes flat, like he wants to says something particularly honest (i.e. _rude_ ) but can't exactly find the proper words. Usually something Liam doesn't want to hear. “ _Any_ idea seems a good idea coming from our Harry. He's a charming fucker that one,” he settles with. And Liam can't understand why it almost sounds like an accusation. Why Niall keeps staring at him like he's searching for a reaction. The truth of it tolls deep within Liam's chest, because yes, Harry is _charming_ and slick and can endear people to himself as easily as he quirks a crooked smile. But Liam especially, finds that he has this inexplicable need to deny Harry absolutely nothing, and that's not anything to do with charm and everything to do with something going awfully wrong inside Liam's head. It unsettles him to think that any of the others might see that. 

Liam's phone buzzes before he can say anything else on the matter, Harry's name flashing across the screen like he knows he's being talked about. Liam wouldn't be surprised, Harry _did_ have them all on Google Alerts at one point. Probably still does. 

_:(((((((((((((((((( my head_

“It's Harry,” he announces lamely, Niall giving him this dumb look that sits somewhere between 'you're a big git,' and 'duh, who else would it be'.

 _i feel youu mate._ Liam texts back. 

“Awake before noon? I bet you a fiver he's trying to sneak out someone's house.”

Liam cocks his head, confused, because didn't Niall just finish telling him how adorable they looked getting the same taxi home? Where would Harry find someone willing to shag between the cab and the door, while Liam watched him stumble up the path to his building? Okay, so maybe someone _in_ his building. But Liam feels like Harry barely had enough composure to pull himself to bed much less put someone in it. 

Niall rolls his eyes when Liam's phone buzzes again. And again. And then a third time and he keeps having to backspace and change his response and how can Harry even hold up his phone if he's as thrashed as he's claiming? “Grimmy woke him up and he can't go back to sleep. And he's seriously ill. He's been sick like, three times. Is he texting you too? No one else is answering their phone apparently,” Liam rambles distracedtly, oblivious to Niall collecting their plates and making off to the sink, snorting as quietly as he can. 

“We don't have to,” Niall mumbles. “You always do.”

_i could really use a hug right now_

_at niallers man. dont know how to help you_

“I think he wants me to come over.” Liam finally notices that his breakfast is gone, and that Niall is already stacking the dishes in the sink. “Hey, I wasn't finished eating.”

Niall snorts, grinning at him over his shoulder, a wry lift to his eyebrows. “I wasn't aware. You seemed really distracted.”

“Oh god, Niall. Don't be such a tosser.” Granted, he may crawl over to Niall's for the majority of his morning afters, mostly because no one else is able to drag themselves awake. Not until the sun starts sinking into the west. But also because he really enjoys the company. Liam is habitually early to rise, even during holiday, when his body just doesn't quite understand the benefit of a good lie-in. And Niall has always been there with him, with too much bloody energy and cheer to stay asleep longer than a few hours. Like he _is_ the sun, and the morning waits for and rises with him. 

And a lot of the time, they end up having these really deep discussions without actually meaning to, excising all the shite that sits in their chests and on their shoulders and leaving each other lighter, and less surly, while everyone else snoozes away in their bunks. Niall is anything but a tosser. And that's probably why he's such a _tosser_. “I mean, it's just Harry being moany. As usual. I'm sorry, I don't mean to ignore you.” Another text comes through.

_Liiiiiaaaaaaaaaaamm_

“Don't be daft,” Niall says like he wants to laugh Liam out the door, glancing at Liam's phone like it's a particularly funny joke. Like something about its existence is inherently amusing. “You should answer him before your phone combusts and burns my house down.”

Liam does, sighing when _another_ text lights up his screen. 

_come take care of meeeeee_

_omg harry shutup for a minute yeh?_

_:(((_

“I think I should go over,” Liam frowns. 

Niall's eyebrows shoot above the line of his fringe, ungelled and sweeping against his forehead. “Oh really? You think?” Niall and sarcasm shouldn't go together so well, but it really really works and it makes Liam want to shrivel up and die, because it makes him feel like Niall is stabbing at weak points without actually using a knife. Just his flat, flat words and hostile, open grins.

“You wouldn't mind, would you,” Liam asks, already standing up.

“Jaaayzus, Liam. Go take care of your _boyfriend_ ,” Niall says, turning back to the dishes and turning on the faucet. His shoulders are shaking, almost like he's holding back laughter. 

“You're a funny git, you are,” Liams deadpans, and then Niall _is_ laughing at him. Because Liam is gathering his things, and feeling less and less guilty about abandoning Niall but more and more like this _means_ something. And that Niall _knows_ something that Liam doesn't and is perfectly content to leave him stumbling around in the dark. Taking far too much pleasure in watching Liam bump into walls made of his own ignorance. And he indeed laughs Liam out the door, all the way down the street, and what feels like all the way through Northwest London, following him into Camden and up Primrose Hill. 

\- - - - -

When he gets to Harry's it's to find him huddled under his blankets with the curtains all drawn, mewling pathetically as he turns restlessly in his bed. Liam might almost feel sorry for him if he too didn't want to crawl into the nearest hole and never come out again. Liam is not a drinker, he doesn't know why he even tries. His hangovers aren't the worst, but they tend to stick with him for days.

“Niall is kind of a dick,” he says like it's a revelation, shoving a glass of water and three paracetamol at Harry, peeling the covers from over his head and watching him curl into a tight, moaning ball.

“You're a dick,” Harry gripes into his pillow as Liam pokes his side and continues to shove water in his hidden face. 

“Harry. Don't beg me to come over and take care of you and then refuse my help when I do,” Liam admonishes, setting the glass on Harry's nightstand and attempting to pry his friend's arms from around his head. They struggle for a few minutes, Harry bending away from Liam's touch and acting like a bloody child. How the hell did he gather the fortitude to text Liam, repeatedly, like he was starved for attention? “I could be in my own bed right now. Or back at Niall's.” 

“Niall is Niall,” Harry says as if he's finally caught up and bestowed a wealth of wisdom at Liam's feet, letting Liam unfurl him and stretch him out across his bed, squinting up at him like it's taking all of his concentration just to keep him in his sights. “Anyway, didn't you just say he was a dick?” 

“Well, yeah. But it was more like, stating a fact. I discovered something today, and it so happened to be that Niall is kind of a dick. What bearing does that have on me enjoying his company?”

“I don't know. You don't like dicks? Dicks affect your life in the negative? Dicks are bad. Bad dicks. Does it matter, Liam?” Harry is pushing his face into Liam's thigh, pressing a frown into the outer seam of his jeans. 

“It maybe matters,” he responds, very aware that it really doesn't. It's just, he's trying to figure out what Niall is seeing in him that he can't self-identify. Something to do with Harry. Something to do with the way Harry clings to him and how Liam doesn't really like going without it. How he's grown comfortable these last few months with the solid weight of Harry's arm around his shoulder. 

“Can we just skip to the part where you cuddle me the rest of the day, and ease my aching, broken body?”

“Sorry,” he apologises, threading his fingers into Harry's dark curls. “Just. It maybe isn't so important, but I just thought it was weird what he was saying. I think he was trying to tell me something, but not like, with his words. More with his eyes. And his laughter. Niall is like the only person I know who thinks he can convey things through laughter.”

Harry groans out, gravelly and raspy and low, with a look of frustration scrunching up his face, and Liam feels his stomach jump. “I don't really care, Liam. Stop being so wordy and, and _obtuse_. I'm hungover as all bloody hell and it's really confusing me, and all I really want is for you to climb into my bed and hug my headache away. Squeeze it gone with those ridiculous arms.” 

Liam feels his face grow hot, fingers scrabbling against Harry's scalp. “I don't think headaches work that way, Haz.”

“You never know until you try,” he mumbles. 

And Liam really can't argue with that logic, except that he really can. He's not going to, but he would just like to acknowledge that he can. Just to be sure though, since Harry's logic is actually stupidly deranged, he forces Harry to sit up and swallow the paracetamol and gulp down some water before he toes off his shoes and socks and shucks off his coat. He crawls into the bed and Harry rolls into him, warm skin pressing all along Liam's clothed body. 

“I mean, really. Conveying thoughts through laughter? That's really silly, Liam Payne. You're really silly,” Harry murmurs sleepily into his chest, Liam's arms coming around to circle him. 

“Much like hugging headaches away. Because _that's_ not silly at all.”

Harry pinches him in the side, “Heyyy. I'll have you know, it's working.”

“Oh sure. I believe you. I really do.”

Liam can feel Harry's smile grow into his collar, lips stretching to form a wide, crooked grin pressing dimples into his cheeks, scratching against the fabric of Liam's shirt. Harry nods off like that, breath evening out across Liam's neck and body becoming heavy. And Liam wonders what's so odd about this? Harry's done this with them all, at some point. He uses the closest person he can find as a pillow, with or without their consent. It's just, lately, it's been mostly Liam. For a time, it had been Louis, back when they were all living in the same building and the two of them shared a flat. So maybe Liam is just around Harry more since they live like, a five second jog away from each other, and they share cabs, and look out for each other in clubs. Niall and all his _implications_ and laughter could fuck right out of it. 

Eventually, he too falls asleep, encased in the cocoon of Harry's soft snuffles and warm skin. 

\- - - - -

Later, when Harry is finally up and looking about halfway to decent human being, Liam gets a text from Ruth, which seriously? Has she been sneaking sips from her roommates gin again? Liam is laying on the couch when he gets it, staring at a rerun of QI while Harry putters about the kitchen, throwing some sort of cheap, peasants High Tea together, since neither of them are willing to pop further than Tesco Express, and can't even fathom trekking all the way to Camden Market in the middle of the afternoon. 

“Wouldn't that just be tea,” Liam had asked and Harry had just shooed him out of the kitchen, whipping at his legs with the dish towel. 

In any case, Liam is really fucking confused.

_Is there something you'd like to tell me?_

_umm i lov you?_

_Anything else?_

_ruth wot you on about??? are you ok??_

And he does end up asking her about the gin, but she never answers him back after that. He shuffles into the kitchen awhile later, Harry standing at the stove in nothing but boxers and a t-shirt, fussing with some potatoes and chicken and sausages and carrots, trying to organise them into separate oven dishes, or trying to figure out how to fit them all in with the Yorkshire pudding. Liam's not a cook, he has no idea. “Is there something wrong with me? Or is everyone acting strange this weekend? Niall. My sister...” _You_ , Liam thinks. _You, you, you. You started all this, somehow._

“Maybe both,” Harry shrugs, looking down at his dishes as if he's lost something. “Probably both. It's very likely that it's both. Oh shit!” He jumps away from the stove. 

Harry startles when Liam darts over to him, one hand at his back and other checking Harry over, taking the boy's hands into his own. “What? Are you okay? Did you burn yourself. Wait, the oven isn't even on. What is it?”

“Nothing,” Harry is chuckling, and Liam feels like far too many people are taking the piss out of him today. He smiles at Liam, slapping his hands away and moving towards the stove again. “I just forgot the parsnips.”

“Oh,” Liam says, feeling somewhat foolish. “Can't really do a Sunday roast without parsnips, can we?”

“I'm glad you agree. Which is why you get to go fetch them.”

Liam sighs, great and heaving. “ _Harry_ ,” he says, unhappy that he's the one that has to venture out into the cold. 

“ _Liam_.”

“You're a _git_ ,” Liam tells him as he grabs his coat and heads for the door. 

“Don't forget the wine. And text the others while you're at it! This is way too much food for just the two of us!”

“Fine, whatever,” Liam says as he grasps for his mobile and closes the door. It's not until he's reached the bottom step of the stairwell and halfway out the entrance that his brain wraps around Ruth's answer, glaring up at him in tiny letters formed by hundreds of tiny pixels.

_We're here for you. Me, Nicola, mum and dad. We support you._

“What the bloody–“

His train of thought is interrupted by a click and a flash, Liam cutting his eyes at the man across the street, standing against the tree with an SLR around his neck, trying his damndest to seem as inconspicuous as possible. _Don't you guys ever go home,_ he thinks, shoving his hands into his pockets, Ruth and her cryptic texts slipping from his mind. He starts down the street in the direction of Tesco Express, feeling oddly on edge.

\- - -

Liam spends the next half hour looking over his shoulder, feeling an utter twat because he's paranoid that some photographer will snap a picture of him doing normal, people things. And then tomorrow everyone will judge him for his choice of parsnips and cheap wine and maybe he should grab something else so he doesn't look quite so pathetic walking out Tesco with one flimsy bag. He literally spends ten minutes in front of the wine fridge deciding how chavvy he'll look walking out the store with Blossom Hill, and whether or not it's worth it just to watch Harry make retching noises and cuss Liam for his poor taste. 

And then Liam'll say, ' _Well maybe next time you should buy your own food._ '

And then Harry will go on about how he slaved over a hot stove for two hours (' _Two hours, Liam Payne!_ ') and this is the thanks he gets? He'll probably bitch for awhile after that, in his quiet, wordless way. Make Liam do all the dishes, and _dry_ them. Force Liam to take out the trash. Take up the whole couch when they watch television. Wrap himself up in all the blankets so Liam will have to sit there with cold toes through the entirety of whatever crappy film they decide to watch. Prod Liam awfully hard between that really sensitive spot in his side everytime he nods off. Nut check Liam whenever one of them leaves the room. Generally be a complete nightmare, all with a beautific smile. _As per the norm_ , actually. Except he'll do it from far away instead of right under Liam's armpit.

But then Liam remembers how he stepped out Harry's building and how the cold smacked him in the face hard enough to make his eyes water, and he grips the £3.99 bottle of wine decisively. 

When he finally leaves Tesco, after having battled the blood-boiling self-checkout in lieu of the long cashier's line, Liam is once again assaulted by the evening November air and he thinks, _Yeah. Totally worth it_. Even if he has to suffer the two or three photographers who utterly fail at subtlety as they follow him up the block from a few dozen metres away. It's still totally worth it to see Harry's arrant dismay when he pulls the wine from the shopping bag and stares Liam down with something akin to horror.

In the end, the lads don't actually come over because they're either busy socialising (Niall), hanging (Louis), or shagging (Zayn). Niall actually invites them out, and Liam actually might want to go just to interrogate Niall about his inscrutable looks and what they actually mean. But when Liam shows Harry the text, he does this sort of half shrug and says it's too cold to leave the flat. 

“So I guess it's okay for me to freeze my bum off for your bloody parsnips. But when your skinny arse is involved, suddenly it's too cold.”

“You can go if you want.” Harry sips his drink and grimaces. “Actually, it might be best after bringing home this awful bilge water masquerading as wine. You just might deserve to freeze your bits off.”

“Your Rah is showing,” Liam responds lightly, hiding his own grimace when he takes a sip.

“Oh no! What will Mummy and Daddy think?”

Liam doesn't go because it actually is that cold. Instead he spends another night at Harry's even though neither one of them is hungover anymore. Not by much. Not enough where either of them need taking care of. 

And Harry does force Liam to clean up, and does steal all the blankets, and take up all the space on the couch. He does prod Liam constantly, and nut check him more than once in the space of twenty minutes. He _is_ a nightmare. Only, he gives up the charade halfway through Hot Fuzz because they both know he wants to curl his toes under Liam's leg. 

“This doesn't mean I forgive you,” Harry says crossly. “All my hard work in the kitchen. All that food. Ruined, because you decided to bring home piss instead of wine.”

“Oh Haz, shut up and give us a cuddle.” Liam opens his arm up and leans back to give Harry some space to manoeuvre. “You know you want to.”

“Yeah, so what if I do,” Harry mumbles. He scoots into Liam's side and settles the blankets over them, their knees knocking together while they get comfortable. They spend the rest of the night like that, nodding off to cheesy panel-show reruns and breathing deep into each other's skin. Waking up at some ungodly hour to crick necks and stiff limbs, and despite that, not bothering to move to Harry's bed. 

Harry pretty much sleeps like the dead, and Liam is just barely awake enough to stretch him across the couch. He fumbles around for a bit, tilting Harry over and pressing him into the sofa, so he doesn't wake up with anymore aches and pains. Liam's too sleepy to argue when Harry keeps him from getting up to take the bed for himself, wrist caught in the circle of Harry's fingers while green eyes stare up at him, unfocused. “You're always trying to go somewhere,” Harry's voice is so low Liam isn't sure if he's not just hearing things. “Stop trying to leave.”

“Okay. I won't.”

Liam lets Harry pull him back, and cover them with the duvet. They just lay there for a bit, Harry pressing his forehead between Liam's shoulder blades and clutching at his side, before they doze off again until morning. 

\- - -

Liam is resolutely unamused.

It all starts making sense a few days later when Liam is running back and forth playing some mad game of monkey in the middle while the others toss a copy of Heat over his head. 

_a little warning might have been nicee_ , he sends his sister, which makes no difference because she answers with a string of dumb emoticons that could mean _anything_ and which don't help alleviate the absolute teeth-grinding mortification he's experiencing at the moment. 

The boys each take turns reading from the article, each with increasing fervour and glee, while Liam looks on desolately and wonders how long before he melts into the couch. If he'd suffocate in the cracks between the cushions, if puddles of complete embarrassment can even suffocate at all. Asphyxiation seems rather likely given the looks Niall keeps shooting his way. He's saying things with his eyes again, and Liam's throat goes tight, and there's a prickle of annoyance scratching at the back of his neck. Because now Louis' in on the act, filling Harry's flat (Harry who's not even _there_ , has left Liam to suffer alone the prat) with raucous laughter and hanging off of Zayn whose snorting into his coffee and trying his best to look sympathetic. They keep flashing the magazine in Liam's face, and he seriously wants to murder the person who invented the cameraphone; the image of Harry, drunk and pressed tight against his side, in high resolution, at every conceivable angle is forever burned into the impress of his mind. 

They look every bit as besotted as Heat is calling them, with Harry's arm over his shoulders and his lips laying on the juncture of Liam's neck, the biggest and clearest photo in the collage of photos captured that night. And Liam remembers how Harry's breath felt against his pulse. Hot and damp as he mumbled lyrics into Liam's skin, writhing together for the sake of pretence. How good it felt. How loose and easy it made him feel, uncoiling in a crowded and stifling nightclub. Harry has this way of making you feel like you're his entire world, he's completely enveloped and enveloping, and it's _embarrassing_ and _unfair_ because Liam's only just been able to shake his reserve away. Their friendship was a slow burn, simmering between them over years and years before Liam was comfortable with Harry and how effortlessly candid he can be. He's not so open as all that, but he's _honest_ as hell and intensely bizarre and unapologetically tactile, and maybe he's not an open book. Maybe he doesn't air his insides to the public for all to look and poke at and prod, but he's an open _person_. Reactive and kinetic, and Liam's only just figured it out. All he feels now is as if something intimate has been violated, those really private moments they've only just begun to share. 

And okay, maybe the stuff at the club, the play acting and the pretending, was really over the top. They were both sort of stupendously pissed, and Harry has the kind of eyes you could get lost in, all jade and oceanic and stupidly pretty. They're just really distracting and Liam never looks directly at them because they upset him in that off-kilter, unbalanced sort of way. He definitely never swoons, Liam is not a swooner. He can understand why someone would, though. Harry's a mate, and yeah he's got these _eyes_ and this _face_ , so maybe it's easy to believe that Liam's all enamoured, because Harry is just that easy to like. But their friendship has been turned into something of a _scandal_ , and all these pictures, the ones from the club and the ones of Liam leaving Harry's flat and even the ones they've dug up from long ago when One Direction was latest thing on that singing show. They make this new closeness Liam feels for Harry, they make it _sordid_.

The others aren't any help whatsoever. All they see is how bloody _hilarious_ it all is and defiantly ignore Liam quietly freaking out over this (admittedly juvenile) media blip. That he's having a bona fide crisis over boundaries and privacy and insipid press speculation in the middle of Harry's living room, while they yuck it up like it's the joke of the century. It's really not that funny. He never realised how _wank_ his friends are. 

They don't let up until Harry walks through the front door a few hours later, hair all mussed and groceries in hand. He flies right by them and through to the kitchen as if it's normal to have his home invaded by two shrill tosspots, a boy who's really just above all this, and Liam. The one doing his best imitation of a miserable sodding dishtowel yet. Though it's possible Harry's used to it by now considering he's already lived with Louis. Louis who has an uncanny knack for being all three at once when the mood takes him. 

“What're we laughing about,” Harry asks a few minutes later, popping his head from around the kitchen doorway. He lumbers over to perch himself on the armrest next to Liam, presumably done with putting away the shopping. Or distracted enough to stop. “I could hear you two monkeys from down the street.”

“I think the more pertinent question,” Louis begins, pointing accusingly at Harry with narrowed eyes and all. “Is where have you been? It's been a bloody age since we got here. Liam has been here all alone while you've been out gallivanting. We wouldn't want there to be _rumours_ you know.”

“I ran into Nick at Sainsbury's. We ended up wandering the market for awhile. _This one_ ate me out of house and home.” Harry flicks Liam's ear, and Liam is so not in the mood. “Four days is all it took to clear out my fridge.”

“There normally isn't anything in your fridge to begin with!” Liam swats at Harry's fingers and shoves petulantly at his leg until he's stumbling from his seat and pinching at the skin of Liam's arm. “You make me go shopping every time I come over. I had to shove you out the door today!” Which is not really true. All Liam had to do was murmur, 'Blossom Hill', and Harry shot out the door so fast he'll surely be scrubbing scorch marks from his floorboards for days. But it's the principle! It's always the principle, with Liam.

Harry continues as if Liam isn't sitting there outraged and so so _so_ done with this day. “I just don't know how I'll survive winter if you're going to be over all the time. Bears are supposed to hibernate, shouldn't you be hibernating?”

“Please don't call me next time you have a hangover. Just don't.”

Harry's grin is as wide as ever, tipping himself over into Liam's lap, all limbs and torso and stupid hair. Zayn is next to them, tsking as Harry's long body spills over him as well, raising his mug to avoid scalding all three of them with his coffee. “You're cooking isn't that great anyway. Subpar, really,” Liam lies right through the clench of his teeth.

“Oh, go home, Payne.” Harry clutches at Liam's arm, somewhat contradictorily. 

“Would you like that? I can totally do that if you want.”

“Ugh, I don't know. Maybe not. Shut up.” Liam skin prickles as Harry wriggles about until he's stretched across both he and Zayn, head pillowed in the latter's and bum sinking between the spread of Liam's legs. “You do keep my bed warm.”

“Often, according to Heat,” Louis pipes in, which only serves to make the flush sitting on Liam's cheeks move all down his neck and settle in his chest. Louis drops the magazine onto Harry's scrunched up, confused face. “A full two pages dedicated to your clandestine love affair.” 

Harry holds the thing up, squinting bemusedly into the words for the few seconds it takes for him to absorb what he's reading. “Harry's big gay club romp – in the style of Dirty Dancing,” he mumbles flatly. It's like Liam can see the thoughts running circles around Harry's head, eyes flicking from page to page in an effort to process what exactly he's looking at. When he does, when it finally clicks, he shoots up like a bolt, guffaws thunderous as his bum digs into the flesh of Liam's leg.

“Ow, Haz! You've got a really bony arse, y'know.”

Of course, Harry just has to read it aloud, making a scene of it; where Harry is narrator and Louis joins in, playing the part of vapid, _lying_ , undisclosed source. They mnage to get through half of it before devolving into a fit of giggles at the absurdity of it all. “Oh my _god_ , Liam! This is priceless!”

Liam's glad he's amused. Really. At least one of them is. His head makes a dull thud as it drops to the back of the couch and he wonders why he ever tried out for X-Factor at all. Forget the fans, and the money, and the singing in front of thousands of people. Forget touring the world, forget it all. Because his friends are really really dumb, and he's going back to Wolverhampton and hiding under his bed for the rest of his life. “I really don't think so,” he says. 

“What you on about? It's fucking hilarious!”

“No, I don't think it is.” 

They don't talk about it much more, because Harry's mobile goes off and Liam can see Nick's name flashing across the screen as he answers. “I just got in. _Please_ tell me you read Heat,” he says down the phone, squirming to pick himself up from Liam's lap and move into the kitchen. “Actually don't. Because if you did and you didn't tell me, that would make you the biggest pillock ever to walk the streets of Camden, which is _very hard_ considering the amount of twats wandering the high street alone.” 

Eventually he does pick himself up and then proceeds to the kitchen once again, this time with Louis at his heel, shouting disparaging remarks into Harry's phone. It leaves Liam alone with Niall and Zayn, who have a world's compendium of knowing, superior looks between them and use them against Liam unfairly often. 

“I think I might want to die,” he says without much preamble.

Zayn rests a comforting hand on his shoulder, clears his throat before he speaks. He's been quiet, for the most part. Out of all of them, he's the most private. He avoids having his photo taken when he's out and about as one were to avoid the plague, and is probably the least comfortable with sharing the intricacies of his daily life. He's not so shy as he is guarded. He doesn't mind being in the public eye but he loathes when people pry, especially when it has zilch to do with his job as an entertainer. Zayn understands where Liam is coming from, always has something poignant and clever to say that makes him feel better. He squeezes Liam's shoulder, frown setting into his lips and brow.

“Have you tried _not_ being gay for Harry?” 

Traitor.

Bloody, bloody _Judas_. 

“Yes, it's abundantly clear that you guys have jokes. I get it. Ha ha, you all are so funny, I'm dying.”

“Jesus, Liam. Stop being such a martyr. This is shite, it's all shite. You _know_ that,” Niall proclaims ardently. 

Yes, he knows it's all crap. They've lived it for the past four years, and obviously he's gotten used to having his face and name dragged through the papers, the most insignificant and trite parts of his life garnished and displayed for the world to consume. But Liam can't explain why _this_ in particular strikes a nerve, why these photos (and God if they're not convincing) pluck dissonantly inside his head and make him want to squirm. Why it makes his chest tighten uncomfortably. Why it even _matters_. He can't because he doesn't actually know. The words don't form inside his head and all he's left with is a righteous indignation. 

“I know,” Liam sighs. “I know. I just. It's just not sitting right with me and I can't figure out why.”

Niall and Zayn share a look, a whole conversation passing between them in the space of a silent, stretched moment. “You should probably talk to Harry about that, mate,” Zayn says finally.

“What? Why? This whole thing doesn't seem to bother him much.”

“Maybe because it's not really a 'thing' to him,” Niall says sagely. “Not that kind of thing anyway. Not an important thing.”

“You've completely lost me.”

Niall rolls his eyes and plops himself on the other side of Zayn. “Like, it doesn't matter. Like, it's not important because Harry doesn't actually care what people think. About you or him or you guys together.” 

Liam thinks he gets it. Like they're still mates, and no amount of gossip mongering and tale spinning will change that. It's just stories. Inane and vapid and with no basis in reality save for the drunken escapade that was Saturday night. And not even that was real. 

“Like, this is stupid and it's not going to make Harry stop being my friend? I understand, I think.”

Niall huffs through his nose, a little annoyed. “I don't think you do.” He doesn't get a chance to explain though, because Harry and Louis come back out the kitchen, quieter somehow, than when they went in. But it still drowns out all the things plucking on Liam's mind and makes Niall sit back into the sofa with a frustrated expression. 

“I just saw you! You couldn't tell me this earlier? I would have made you come up.” Harry bumps Liam's leg and quirks a smile at him before taking his place up on the armrest again. “So what if you live up the road? Come get it yourself. Why are we friends?” 

Liam can hear Nick's voice buzzing through the speaker, words sliding quickly out his mouth just as Harry's, which is to say, not quick at all. More slow and liquid, like syrup sticking somewhere at the roof of his throat. 

“Fine. _Fine_. I'll be there in a tic,” Harry grumbles, eyebrows twitching. He pockets his phone before letting Nick say anything else. “He left his phone charger at his boyfriend's, the numpty,” Harry explains when Liam glances at him curiously. 

“Ah. So he wants to borrow one of the thousand old ones you hoard,” Louis posits from his spot across the room. 

“I don't hoard,” Harry says, puttering about for his coat and keys. He disappears into the kitchen to dig through a drawer, where Liam knows for a fact, there is an abundance of phone chargers stuffed away for no particular reason other than 'just in case'. Right there in the drawer next to the fridge, knotted and gnarled together with the pens and tippex no one uses, and the bank statements he never looks at. 

Honestly, though, Liam never looks at his own either. They've a veritable fortune between the five of them, and have enough fuckoff money to last them until their thirties. Provided no one catches a drug habit or buys more houses than they can afford, of course. 

“I'll be back in a bit, yeah,” Harry says with charger in hand, slipping into his shoes and finding a hat to cover his mess of curls. 

Another one of those ominous looks take up Niall's face, only he's directing it at Louis this time, who seems to comprehend exactly what Niall's trying to convey. And like everything Liam finds today, this especially he finds _not fair_. You'd think he'd be able to decipher his _best friends'_ meaningful expressions after almost four years. 

“I'll go with you,” Louis jumps up after he nods at Niall, and follows Harry to the door. 

“If you want.” Harry shrugs. 

“Wouldn't want anyone to think you're steppin' out on Liam already, after so soon.”

“No wild parties. Lock up if you leave,” Harry tells Liam before they shuffle out the door, shooting him and Niall a flat look when they both speak at the same time.

“Like that'll happen,” Naill mutters.

And, “Why do _I_ have to be the one,” Liam asks over him.

“Responsibility to the responsible,” Harry hollers as the front door swings shut. 

Liam doesn't think to question Niall about it until they're knee-deep in a game of Fifa and Niall is calling him a multitude of things, none of which are the least bit polite. “You kiss your mum with that mouth,” Liam says, scoring the third winning goal in the past hour. He doesn't _actually_ ask until they've popped in Modern Warfare and Niall has sworn a blood-feud against him and his entire family at least four times. Liam can't really help it if he's a winner. He's just naturally good at kicking his friends' arses at video games. Or Niall's and Louis' anyway. Harry pretty much sucks, therefore never plays for long, and Zayn. Zayn is really really fucking good, but never bothers because there's something more interesting going on. Or he's texting Perrie. Probably both.

“What did you mean,” Liam asks, just after sniping another of Niall's men. 

“Whadya mean, 'what do I mean'?” Niall mashes buttons on his controller as if it will help. Zayn watches the screen intently, shaking his head and mmming at Niall's every unfortunate mistake. Niall knocks him with his elbow every time. “You're gonna have to be more specific,” Niall says. 

“Earlier. About—“

“About the Harry thing, or the not leaving thing? Which I suppose goes back to the Harry thing.”

“Yeah, that. Both.”

Niall pauses the game, right before he's about to get shot. Again. Coincidentally. “When's the last time you left Harry's flat,” he asks seriously, looking Liam dead in the eye.

“Yesterday. We had lunch at that French place in the market, owned by that Uruguayan guy.”

“Rephrase,” Zayn jumps in, and Niall flaps a hand at him.

“When's the last time you've been home?”

Liam doesn't know why, but he blushes. He likes hanging out at Harry's flat, is there something wrong with that? “Not since summer. I'm heading up for Christmas though.”

“Don't be a dickhead,” Niall reaches over Zayn to punch him.

“I really don't see why it matters. I'm only up the road. I'm probably closer than Nick.”

“ _Exactly_.”

Zayn nods in agreement, as if Niall has said something that's not at all confusing. 

The last few days have made Liam feel as if his head is spinning. He somehow missed the point where everything makes sense, stumbles right into an alternate reality where the lines are made up and the points don't matter. Except that there's a script Liam's not following because he doesn't _have one_ , and the points really _do_ matter.

“And you're _not_ going back to yours, are you?”

“I hadn't planned on it.”

“Therein lies your answer,” Zayn speaks up as Niall says, “That's what I thought.” 

“I get the feeling I'm being ganged up on.”

Niall unpauses the game and promptly dies at the stroke of a button. “Bastard,” he shouts while Zayn snickers, but then starts to grumble when Niall shoves the controller at him. “You're not being ganged up on,” Niall assures. “You're being dense.”

Niall is right, though. Not about the dense thing. About Liam not going home, obviously. Right, in that Liam doesn't. He just trudges away after Zayn shows him a no-holds-bar thrashing on the virtual battlefield, and hides in Harry's room for the rest of the afternoon. He has a bit of a moan at his sister about his shit friends and utter lack of privacy. He conveniently forgets to disavow her of the notion that he and Harry aren't actually a couple, but it doesn't matter because by the time he does remember, Ruth has wished them the best and bunked off to go out with her own boyfriend. “I got a social life too, y'know,” she says. “Can't sit around all day listening to you moan about how miserably in love you are.”

“But. I'm not,” Liam says weakly to dial tone. 

It leaves him stricken, Liam throwing himself into Harry's bed like a child and moping until sundown. 

By the time Niall and Zayn come find him, bidding their farewells, Louis and Harry still haven't gotten back. It's very likely they got caught up at Nick's, which is the easiest thing in the world to do. Because Nick always has someone clever and attractive over, and that someone usually has very interesting stories to tell. Liam in particular, recalls the night a few weeks ago, when Harry dragged him over there and Simon Amstell popped by. What was meant to be a quick hello and pre-game bottle of Chardonnay turned into a marathon of Popworld anecdotes and good-natured jibes at Miquita Oliver. Liam's sides hurt for days after from laughing so much. And when he left, Harry hanging off his shoulders, Liam thinks, _Shit, I used to watch them on television all the time_ , and there he was. Sitting in Nick Grimshaw's flat listening to Simon Amstell chat bollocks and tell in-jokes that Liam actually understands. 

Life, he'd decided then, was a lot amazing. But also kind of mental. 

The bed dips as Niall sits next to him, patting at Liam's blanket covered head, only he ends up smacking Liam's hip instead. But it's okay. The sentiment is still there. “Don't worry mate,” Niall says. “It'll blow over. These things always do, remember?”

“Yeah,” answers Liam. “Yeah, I guess.” Liam clings to that once they leave, curling himself into the pillows in an attempt to smother his thoughts. 

Once Harry does return (at arse'o'clock in the morning), it's without Louis and with Nick and he's probably a lot stoned if the dopey smile and meandering conversation is anything to go by. They make a lot of noise coming in, and it rouses Liam from the fitful half-sleep that finds him curled up in the empty space in the bed. The space that Harry usually takes up. Liam watches them from the kitchen entryway as they rummage through the fridge and giggle, reading out food labels in long vowels and raspy voices. “You didn't leave,” Harry announces when he finally notices Liam standing there. 

“No. I didn't.”

“I was afraid,” Harry presses his forehead to the edge of the cool fridge door, like he's trying to keep all his secrets from spilling out his brow. Harry pauses, like a great stretch of silence before a final note. He could still be out of breath from taking great, lungful draws from a joint and laughing way too much, but is still makes Liam hold his own breath for it. Makes Liam want to know what it means. Makes his drowsy brain, stand at attention. 

Harry speaks, “That I was going to have to be cross with you. For leaving my door unlocked.”

“Is that all?”

“And for buying shit wine,” adds Nick. 

“Oh Christ, Harry. Get over it. That was days ago.”

“It was _traumatic_ ,” Harry protests. 

“You're ridiculous.”

“You love me.”

Liam leans against the door frame, very nearly unperturbed. “Lies, pretty much. All of it,” he says loftily.

“It's in Heat. So it _must_ be true,” Harry states with the certainty of the blazed. Where weed makes nothing you say wrong, and everything you say deep. 

“Can we _not_.”

Harry's gaze zeroes right in on Liam, something serious in the downward quirk of his lips, perpetual smile turned into a hard, straight line. Like he's sizing Liam up and can't decide whether or not to devour him whole. They're not giggling anymore. Or, well. Harry isn't. Nick is watching them, endlessly amused from the look of it, with the way Harry and Liam wage a silent staring contest. It almost makes Liam want to step back. Liam'd be lying if he said he didn't have to keep his feet from doing so for him, if he consciously didn't have to keep himself rooted to the spot. Slowly, Harry turns toward Nick, his eyes the last thing to leave Liam.

“Whatever you say, _lover_.”

Liam snorts. “Go to bed, Harry.”

“Get naked and then we'll talk,” Harry grins lecherously. “Gotta have some incentive, innit?”

Nick starts giggling again and Liam throws his hands up. He walks away because it's the only thing left to do. It's too late and Liam is definitely not awake enough to have conversations with Harry that are more like dancing than actual talking. “Wake me when you're not twelve.” 

“Don't be shy Liam,” Harry calls to Liam. And Liam retreats, like he does with all things concerning Harry, gives way in one way or another. “I'll even send Nick home. We can be as loud as we want.”

“ _Goodnight_ , Harry.”

\- - -

“It doesn't bother you,” Liam asks later, when Nick is gone and Harry is finally crawling into bed. Liam can't sleep. He's having doubts about friends, and friendship, and whether you're allowed to _do_ this kind of thing with one another. 

“Why would it?” Harry stretches out next to him, half undressed and lazy.

“I dunno. Just wondering.”

“Everyone knows I like a bit of cock now and then. Why not yours?”

Liam can feel heat blooming under his cheeks, and he wonders how Harry can just _say_ things like that. “Maybe because it's not actually _true_ ,” Liam points out.

“Then it matters even less, doesn't it?” 

Harry rolls onto his side, propping his head up by his hand, chewing at his bottom lip, discerning. Liam matches him limb for limb, facing Harry like he'd face a mirror. But one whose reflection he can't recognise. Like the image got lost in between the glass and shows Liam what he wants instead of who he is. Except he doesn't even know what he wants. Can only feel the space between them, cold and profound and wrong.

“And I'm actually straight,” Liam concludes. But it can't help sounding like a question to his own ears.

“Okay.”

“For all intents and purposes,” he continues.

“Okay.”

“Not that you're not lovely, Haz. You could have anyone you wanted, and maybe if I was. Or I wasn't. Or, I dunno. But, y'know,” Liam finishes sort of weakly, thrown off kilter by the way Harry just stares at him, eyes red, and reeking of pot, and something lurking behind the ridiculous sweep of his hair. 

“Okay.”

They don't talk about it after that. Liam lets it sink into the recesses of his mind and Harry lets it be.

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm looking to have this done by the end of July (Je sais, je sais I've already had people waiting too long on this I'm a horrible dreadful human being etc etc). I'll try my utmost best though!
> 
> Anyway, thank you for reading! Looking forward to giving you more! Til next time!


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